Fallen
by Le Masque31
Summary: '"Why are you here?" Melkor queried with cool nonchalance, turning away from his brother to replace the goblet on the bedside table.' Melkor and Manwë have an agreement. One-shot. SLASH Melkor/Manwë, hence incest, if you think of them as brothers. Features BDSM. More warnings inside. Read at your own risk.


**Warnings: **explicit BDSM, violence, bondage, knife-play, blood-play, breath-play (erotic asphyxiation).

**A/N: **The fic started out as a what-if scenario, and then this sort of happened. I should be ashamed of myself. In fact, halfway through I came to terms with the fact that I will probably go to hell for this. Seriously not for the more vanilla-oriented among my readers. The warnings are there for a reason.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

* * *

><p>The night was warm. The grass underneath Manwë's feet was dappled in frosty silver and emerald green by the light of Telperion, now waxing to its full jewel-bright radiance, and the south-easterly wind breathed sweet with the delicate fragrance of Irmo's gardens.<p>

Manwë picked his way across the plains winding round the feet of the Pelóri. He tugged the hood of his cloak lower over his face, heedful of following the path closest to the mountains. Nights in Valinor had not the dense, black shroud of Beleriand; darkness was soft here, dancing over the land and leaping across streams; it twined joyfully round Telperion's silver glow and parted for weary travelers.

But Manwë did not wish to be seen; his business tonight was not for prying eyes. He curled into the shadows clinging to the Pelóri, and casting a wary glance round him, he dipped into a thicket of trees. A glade sprawled beyond, bordered on all sides by leafy oaks standing tall and proud in their verdant youth. And there, on the far side of the glen, nestled against the eaves of the forest, his brother's cottage lay, secret and nondescript. Golden light gilded the windows and sparkled in the bubbling creek hugging the side of the cottage; the water purled past, frothing and glimmering, only to swerve northward and caper away beneath the trees.

Manwë stepped briskly forward. He flung his hood back, and for a moment as he passed by the window the golden light broke across his face; his features seemed hewn of white marble, furrowed with some untold burden, and his eyes glinted dark and fey. But then the moment was gone, and his knuckles rapped smartly against the wooden door.

Footsteps sounded inside. The door opened an inch, and Melkor's dark head popped out, the spill of his hair veiling the light.

"Well met, brother," Manwë said, voice low and brooding beside the merry tinkle of the stream.

Melkor's lips curved in that infuriating, knowing smile of his, and he shuffled aside in invitation. Their eyes met, and Melkor's smile widened. Manwë lowered his head (_could he not remind him, just for once, because it was painfully obvious, he was here, wasn't he?_), breaking eye contact, and stepped over the threshold.

The inside of the cottage was small and modestly furnished. A fire blazed in the hearth, belching out heat into the cloying warmth of the room. The walls were bare of decoration, firelight bleeding red over their pallor and gleaming off the polished wooden bookcase crammed into the space to the right of the bed. A blush mottled Manwë's cheeks as his eyes skirted the black counterpane, rich with intricate curlicues and lush silk.

(_He knew that counterpane and the sheets beneath; knew their slide against his heated skin as he writhed in his bonds, liquid, gasping pleasure sizzling at the base of his stomach, tumbling over his lips in filthy moans, and he ached, he burned for—_)

He tore his gaze away, the crimson in his cheeks deepening, only to find Melkor staring at him with dark, inscrutable eyes. His brother lifted his hand lazily, touching the goblet he was holding to his lips, and as he leaned against the wall, Manwë noticed the lascivious arch of his hips and the tightness across the front of his breeches. He gulped while his brother continued to sip from the goblet, and a moan shivered on his lips as wine trickled red and gleaming from the corner of Melkor's mouth. A pink tongue darted out, and he felt the familiar coil of arousal spooling in his belly.

"Why are you here?" Melkor queried with cool nonchalance, turning away from his brother to replace the goblet on the bedside table.

Manwë's whirling thoughts ground to a halt. He watched the muscles ripple beneath the flimsy white cotton of his brother's tunic as Melkor advanced toward him, his movements smooth and deliberate like a feline's. He knew that he was breaking Eru Ilúvatar's will; that he was tossing away Varda's trust, watching as it foundered and shattered, but doing nothing in the end. It was perverse and unnatural, this flame scorching his insides. But sharp as that thought was, striking bone-deep and embedding itself there, he could not dispel the fog of lust intoxicating his mind, nor could he quench the fire licking at his veins.

"You know why," he whispered, and despite the stillness of the room, he could feel himself falling, hurled from the heights of the Pelóri into the rotten, forsaken abyss of lust; and he fell most gladly.

Melkor grinned then, but there was a savage edge to it, and a thrill of fear, of desire careened down Manwë's spine. Without warning his brother struck him full across the face, and he toppled backward with a startled yelp, sprawling across the dark red carpet by the foot of the bed. He made to lift his hand, to cup his throbbing cheek, but Melkor pounced on him, pinning his wrists to the floor even as he straddled his waist, dropping all of his weight into keeping him immobile.

Dread speared through him, and he kicked out, but his legs flailed uselessly against the carpeted floor—he was trapped—brute strength would not avail him—and he could do nothing but take whatever his brother would inflict on him. He lay still then, panting like a caged animal, awaiting his brother's whims.

"Do the golden heights of Taniquetil no longer please you, O King of the World?" Melkor mocked in a soft susurrus, digging his nails into the tender flesh of his brother's wrists. "Or does fair Varda, holy and frigid, scorn your lust?"

He released one of Manwë's wrists. A blade flashed in his hand, drawn from some hidden pocket of his breeches, and its jewel-encrusted hilt caught the firelight and sent it rippling in brilliant, blinding shades. Melkor leaned in, lips brushing Manwë's ear, and his whisper was maddening, poisonous: "Or do you simply crave my cock? Is that it, Manwë? Do you want me to spread your legs and fuck you like a whore?"

Whatever shreds of dignity still swirled within him asserted themselves, and he shook his head with jerky, desperate motions.

"No? Oh, but I think you do," Melkor crooned, and then his cloak was torn away, the blade slicing through the fabric of his tunic to leave his torso pale and naked beneath his brother's greedy gaze. The glinting tip of the knife prodded at his collarbone, sharp against his skin but not quite drawing blood, and a whine flickered past his lips as it was dragged lower, digging into his sternum, scoring pink furrows into his skin. It slipped past his nipple, just grazing the sensitive bud, and then veered to the side, light and teasing against his abdomen. With a positively filthy leer Melkor dipped his head, licked his nipple and worried at it with his teeth. Pain shot outward from his chest, and to his mortification pleasure burst in his belly, hot and urgent.

Manwë writhed, trying to wriggle away from Melkor and that sinful knife of his, but with a spark of silver the blade flew to his throat. The corded muscles in his neck flexed as he looked up at his brother, blood thundering in his carotid, rushing against the cold edge of the blade.

Danger lurked in Melkor's smirk, and Manwë shivered beneath him, frissons of fear, of desire, and of something else entirely (_control had been wrenched from him, oh yes, and his brother could kill him, such an easy thing, the press of the blade, the spurt of blood, and he could do nothing, nothing at all_) coursing through his limbs.

The sting of the blade grew sharp, and Manwë could feel his skin rupturing, blood gushing past the jagged edge of the cut to stain his brother's fingertips. The knife clattered to the floor, and then Melkor's dark head was bent against his neck, nudging his head to the side. His brother lapped at the wound, moist tongue sending prickles of pain shrieking through Manwë's neck; he affixed his lips to the gash, sucking at it, coaxing blood to drip onto his tongue, and Manwë felt sick all of a sudden—this was _depraved_, they shouldn't, they couldn't—and he pushed weakly at his brother's shoulder. To his surprise the hard planes of his brother's chest relented, and his head came up. His lips were bedaubed with crimson, blood dribbling onto his chin, and through the roiling sickness in his stomach Manwë was fascinated. He wanted to touch his lips to his brother's, to taste his own blood on them; but they never kissed.

Melkor heaved himself off his brother, jerking the remainder of his tattered clothing off his body to leave him naked and shivering on the floor. Manwë blinked up at him, and made to lift himself on his elbows, to chase after his brother's body heat, but a hand latched onto his upper arm, nails biting and tearing, hauling him to his feet.

The rough motion ripped open the cut on his throat, and as sweat poured over it, mingling with blood, he inhaled sharply through his nose to stave off the pain. Melkor spun him round, goading him toward the bed, and he suddenly found himself thrown face downward onto the sheets, dizzy and disoriented. Before he could get his bearings, his wrists were yanked from under him and pressed against the small of his back, crushing his cheek into the mattress; coarse rope flicked past his hands, and his wrists were bound together, the knots tight and unyielding.

He strained against his bonds, not out of real hope of escape, but because this utter passivity seemed disgraceful even to him. But then his struggles ceased as hands brushed against his hips, hauling his ass into the air. His brother pushed his legs apart with one rough shove, and an undignified squeak wormed its way out of his throat when he felt fingers pawing at his buttocks, spreading him lewdly for his brother's leer.

Hot breath against his entrance made him start and jerk at the rope binding his wrists; made him twist and crane his head to catch Melkor's gaze because no, he couldn't, this was filthy and—

The feel of a wet tongue against the puckered skin of his hole sent all his protests rushing out of him in a cry of delight. But _oh_, this was divine, his brother licking him, plunging his tongue inside. Manwë panted through flushed cheeks, unconsciously pushing back against his brother as a dizzying wave of sensation crashed into him.

"Please," he heard himself beg, voice breathy and muffled. It was driving him mad—the teasing flicks of his brother's tongue, the tantalizing sensation of being opened throbbing through him only to be snatched away as his brother withdrew—and he needed more, he needed to be filled and—

"Please, Melkor," he sobbed into the coverlet as such agonizing rills of pleasure streamed hot and heady through his body. And he should be ashamed, he should be prostrating himself upon Taniquetil and begging for mercy—but he could not think beyond the fire in his veins, and Melkor was moving away, and he heard the swish of fabric as fastenings were undone—he heard the slick sound of Melkor oiling himself up—a knee forced his legs farther apart, and, oh _yes_, his brother's arousal was throbbing against his entrance, and he was thrusting, pushing in …

Manwë screamed as his brother entered him—the stretch, the burn stoking the fire within him, making it burn all the brighter—but then fingers were at his throat, tightening, crushing his windpipe—blood smeared across his skin—embers of pain stirred into scorching flame—and he could not breathe, he could not draw in enough air.

Nothing more than wheezing, rattling breaths could squeeze through his trachea with his brother's fingers jammed so cruelly into it. His consciousness waned and dimmed about the edges; he felt as though he were tumbling, falling from a great height, even as his body rocked against the mattress with the force of Melkor's thrusts.

His cock lay aching and leaking between his legs, but he could barely feel it, not even when his brother reached down and wrapped his fingers round the base, pumping them up and down, thumb smoothing over the head, pressing against the slit.

He felt so light all of a sudden, Melkor's low growls and his own ragged, choking gasps but a muffled din. His brother's hips were slamming into him, driving him further up the bed, and as his fingers clenched about his cock, stroking all the faster, a smattering of bright spots danced before his eyes.

And suddenly cool air was rushing into his lungs, the haze in his mind stripped to vivid clarity, and he was coming, spilling onto the sheets as his body jerked and trembled, as his hips rolled back against Melkor of their own accord. He coughed and spluttered, inhaling great gulps of air, and he heard his brother groan behind him when his seed spurted hot and thick against his inner walls.

Dull stragglers of sensation thumped through him—the contented heat in his belly, the stabbing pain in his neck—and he remained motionless, mind empty of all but fuzzy bliss. He allowed his brother to potter about him; to pull out of his body and scramble out of bed, casting about for the discarded blade. The mattress dipped as Melkor clambered back atop it, and Manwë yelped when the coolness of the blade jarred against his heated skin. His brother sliced through the coils of rope, letting them pool on the floor with the knife jettisoned beside them.

Melkor wordlessly reached for his hands, chafing his numb skin, rubbing feeling back into his fingers—this was as gentle as his brother ever got, and despite everything he was thankful for it, flexing his fingers to dispel the prickling soreness in them, allowing his brother to coax him around, to tuck a strand of damp hair behind his ear.

His eyelids fluttered shut, and he focused on lying still; on breathing, in and out, and somehow it was easier than before; his lungs finally, _finally_ expanded to full capacity, and there was nothing dragging him down, no claws tearing at his chest with each inhalation. He remembered why—why he had remained pliant and silent when his brother had first cajoled him into his bed; why horror and disgust had never filtered through his mind, and instinct had compelled him to move with his brother instead. It did not make it right—nothing ever could—but for him it was enough.

Manwë rolled onto his side, eyes flicking upward to his brother's face. But Melkor was not looking at him at all; he was gazing at the ceiling, painted in soft, glowing shades of orange and red by the leaping flames in the hearth, and suddenly Manwë knew.

"You are thinking of him."

"Yes," his brother replied simply, even though it had not been a question. He finally shifted to face him, one arm tucked beneath his head. A strange sadness lingered in his eyes and clung to his features, and Manwë caught himself thinking that he was beautiful.

The questions bubbled up within him, silly, childish even, but Manwë wanted to know—did he do this to _him_ as well? Did _he_ struggle and spit and curse? Did _he_ scream upon penetration? Did _he_ curl up in Melkor's arms afterwards? _Did they kiss?_

And suddenly Manwë knew that yes, of course they kissed, frequently and inappropriately; in Melkor's chambers and in the throne room and on the battlefield. _Of course_ they kissed.

Manwë glanced down to the narrow crevice between their bodies—close, but not quite touching—and _they_ would have held each other, lips meeting lazily, conversation easy and unthinking. It was stupid of him, but—

(_Envy bit like acid—he might have been Eru's favorite, but he would never know the embrace of a lover, and that certainty hurt—he wanted to beg Melkor to take him again, to shove him against the wall and fuck him until he would not remember_ …)

Shivers careened over his cooling skin. Without looking at his brother, he extricated himself from the rumpled sheets, and remained for a moment perched on the edge of the bed. He flexed his toes, planting them on the carpet, and pain shot through him as soon as he stood. Swaying slightly as he walked, he tried to ignore the throbbing ache spiking upward from his abused entrance, and swept his discarded garments into a bundle against his chest.

"I can't wear this," he whinged morosely, shaking his ripped tunic out of the bundle and thrusting it into his brother's face.

Melkor, still lounging upon the bed with his arms tossed beneath his head, did not stifle his snort of laughter. "Wear something of mine," he offered lightly, smiling at the glare Manwë aimed his way. He twisted, reaching down to the bedside cabinet to rummage into a drawer. "Here," he said, balling up a rather crumpled tunic and throwing it in his brother's direction.

The tunic was blue. Manwë blinked at the fabric in his hands, squinting at it through his frown of incomprehension. "I've never seen you wearing blue before."

"Well, we don't spend that much time together, do we?" Melkor countered, though his tone was not harsh.

The flame of a blush licked up Manwë's cheekbones. No, no they didn't. It was presumptuous of him to assume—well, _he_ probably knew.

"He likes it. Says it makes the silver in my eyes stand out," Melkor added unprompted, a pensive look stealing over his face.

It had been millennia since Manwë had paid any attention to the silver speckling his brother's dark eyes. But _he_ would notice. Of course he would.

Manwë dressed hurriedly, not returning his brother's gaze. Outside the light of Telperion was waning, and Laurelin was preening in its golden glow. In the silence that had fallen, he could hear the faint trills of the stream as it wound away blithely into the forest. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flames guttering in the gust of air stirred up by the flutter of Manwë's cloak.

"Good day, brother," he murmured without looking back, hand already grasping the doorknob. Melkor made no reply.


End file.
